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<title>i'm your kiss behind the ear, your afternoon snack (quiet things that make you happy that you'll never get back) by castleinthesky (babypr0nz)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27146197">i'm your kiss behind the ear, your afternoon snack (quiet things that make you happy that you'll never get back)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/babypr0nz/pseuds/castleinthesky'>castleinthesky (babypr0nz)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fall Out Boy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Band, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Underage, M/M, there's nothing nsfw in here but it's still m for the subject matter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-08 23:54:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,965</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27146197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/babypr0nz/pseuds/castleinthesky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Cigarette smoke was so pungent and so thick and so permanent that it stuck to your clothes. It changed the way summer smelled. Instead of chlorine and sunblock and grass and firewood, it was heavy and thick and dark, sour and acidic. It smelled cold. Like spearmint that was burnt and black. </p>
<p>Patrick didn’t cough at the smell anymore. He’d gotten used to it throughout the past six months, letting it soak into his clothes. It smelled like Pete, so, in the end, he didn’t really mind. Patrick’s clothes always smelled like cigarettes and cheap cologne and ink and it was Pete’s smell. It was the smell he slept in whenever his parents were gone over the weekend. It was the smell that he climbed into whenever Pete was laying on the couch, eyes glassy and half-lidded as he stared at the TV. His arm would drape around Patrick without looking at him and Patrick would eventually listen to him snore, quiet and rhythmic, his chest rising and falling behind Patrick’s back. Patrick wouldn’t really fall asleep, but he would close his eyes and listen to Pete breathe, head full of the smell of him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i'm your kiss behind the ear, your afternoon snack (quiet things that make you happy that you'll never get back)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>welcome to babysitting au hell. this is part of a much larger and longer au that i'm very hesitant to expand upon just because i'm not sure how well it'll be received, but if people like it, i'll definitely add to it. as it is, this fic is sfw, but it's still shotacon on main so i'm treading lightly and just testing the waters. <em>please</em> read the tags and don't read further if you know you're not gonna like this. i've enabled comment moderation so if you do send me any headass shit, it will be deleted.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Cigarette smoke was so pungent and so thick and so permanent that it stuck to your clothes. It changed the way summer smelled. Instead of chlorine and sunblock and grass and firewood, it was heavy and thick and dark, sour and acidic. It smelled cold. Like spearmint that was burnt and black. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick didn’t cough at the smell anymore. He’d gotten used to it throughout the past six months, letting it soak into his clothes. It smelled like Pete, so, in the end, he didn’t really mind. Patrick’s clothes always smelled like cigarettes and cheap cologne and ink and it was Pete’s smell. It was the smell he slept in whenever his parents were gone over the weekend. It was the smell that he climbed into whenever Pete was laying on the couch, eyes glassy and half-lidded as he stared at the TV. His arm would drape around Patrick without looking at him and Patrick would eventually listen to him snore, quiet and rhythmic, his chest rising and falling behind Patrick’s back. Patrick wouldn’t really fall asleep, but he would close his eyes and listen to Pete breathe, head full of the smell of him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick never minded it. Not really. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> harder to take when it was fresh, though, and hitting the side of his face while he was trying to write a paper. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’re you working on, kid?” Pete leaned over Patrick’s shoulder, his cheek nearly brushing Patrick’s. Patrick flushed a little, bending further over the kitchen table. </span>
</p>
<p><span>“A book report,” Patrick mumbled. Smoke curled around him like the gnarled branches on the elm tree in the backyard. “For, um, </span><em><span>Bridge to Terabithia</span></em><span>.</span> <span>For summer school.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah? Lemme take a look at it.” Pete slipped his fingers underneath Patrick’s notebook and looked over the half-finished report, putting his cigarette back between his lips. Patrick blinked up at him wordlessly, feeling a little fidgety and a lot awkward. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete shook his head and withdrew his cigarette, exhaling. “Not bad, but it needs a ton of work. Uh, you misspelled ‘against’, ‘brought’, and ‘question’. You’re also not indenting. You need to indent every time you start a new paragraph. Also not a huge fan of your prose, to be totally honest, but you’ll probably get the hang of it at some point.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I have it back?” Patrick asked in exasperation, holding his hand out. “I don’t even know what most of that </span>
  <em>
    <span>means.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should know. You’re in the fourth grade already, Rick.” Pete returned the notebook and turned towards one of the kitchen cabinets. “Your teacher’s definitely told you what a paragraph is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh my God, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t care</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I don’t care about this stupid report. The book was stupid, too. It was too sad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete was doing something that was clattering somewhere behind Patrick’s head. “What’s your favorite book?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick briefly thought this over. “Uh, I don’t know. I don’t really, like, read a whole lot. Not since Dad bought me my drum kit. I just read for school.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Think really, really hard. Everyone has a favorite book.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...</span>
  <em>
    <span>The Phantom Tollbooth</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I guess. I liked that one a lot more.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A man of high class and taste,” Pete praised. Patrick’s blush worsened as he rolled his eyes, gripping his pencil. “Why’d you like that book so much?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I dunno, it was funny and super weird and it kind of felt like I was in a dream the whole time.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know one book that I really like?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s one I actually just read a couple of weeks ago. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Visions of Cody</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Jack Kerouac. The first half of the book is, like, this series of all these experimental literary sketches that borrow from some of his older works. The second half of the book is a transcript of Kerouac and his wife’s conversations that he taped and then him kind of mulling over his whole relationship with her and their marriage totally spiralling out of control.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That sounds really, really boring,” Patrick said, looking over at Pete with a frown. Pete was still searching through the kitchen cabinet for something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you’re nine, yeah, probably, but if you’re twenty-seven, it’s some pretty fantastical shit, trust me. Anyway, yeah, my point is, both of us have books we like because there’s something special that sticks out about them. You like </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Phantom Tollbooth</span>
  </em>
  <span> because it’s weird and it’s funny and it feels like a dream. I like </span>
  <em>
    <span>Visions of Cody</span>
  </em>
  <span> for pretty much the same reasons. They’re special. It takes a lot of talent to make something that’s gonna stick with someone else. How come </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bridge to Terabithia </span>
  </em>
  <span>made you sad?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Cause the girl fell into the river and drowned?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It made you sad because you cared about her. It stuck with you. Which makes it something special.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I dunno. I guess so.” Patrick exhaled and stared at his smudged sheet of notebook paper. “I think you’re a nerd.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete laughed. “Yeah, maybe.” The cabinet door swung shut. “There’s no food anywhere in here. You want pizza?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick looked up, his heart giving a little leap. “Really?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Only if you finish your report, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s done,” Patrick said quickly, dotting the end of his last sentence. “I’ll, uh, I’ll fix it later.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That better look like Shakespeare, dude, or I’m gonna eat everything myself. You won’t get shit.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It looks fine,” Patrick insisted. “It’s great. I promise.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete smiled and pushed himself away from the counter. “I just want you to make me proud. I know you’ve got it in you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do.” Patrick fought a grin and looked away when Pete passed him, giving his cheek an affectionate nudge with the side of his hand as he left the kitchen. “It’s—I swear, I will.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You already do. Don’t stress too hard, Rickster.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes summer smelled like cigarettes, but sometimes it smelled like pizza. Of course, Patrick preferred that over the cigarettes, but he would’ve taken Pete as he was either way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were watching a movie Patrick had never seen before, sitting on the couch with the pizza box between them. So far, it was very, very boring. Nothing but people talking to each other and walking around in the woods and yelling.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I dunno the name of this one,” Patrick spoke up, wondering if it was too selfish to eat a fourth slice of pizza, eyeing the box longingly, “but it sucks. I wanna watch </span>
  <em>
    <span>RoboCop</span>
  </em>
  <span> again. Or </span>
  <em>
    <span>Grease</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is a good movie. I’ve gotta return the tape tomorrow and I didn’t get a chance to finish it last time.” Pete reached for a fifth slice of pizza, which made Patrick feel brave enough to grab a fourth. “We’ll go to the video store next time you come over and you can pick something out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Patrick felt the smallest but warmest flutter in his chest. “You—really? We’re gonna go out? Like, in your car?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, why not?” Pete said through his mouthful of cheese and crust and sauce, grease on his bottom lip and garlic butter on his fingers. Patrick remembered the time he’d gotten the chocolate cookie part all over his hand while he was eating an ice cream sandwich and Pete had reached out to grab Patrick’s wrist, pulling his hand up so he could suck the sugar off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick thought about doing that sometimes to Pete. Just so he’d know how weird it had felt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ha</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Patrick would say once he’d gotten his lips around Pete’s fingers, glaring at him defiantly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>See how you like it</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’d make fun of Pete, leaning in close to him to leer at him, shove at him, pull his hair just so it made that little shivery feeling crawl up the back of Pete’s spine. </span>
  <em>
    <span>See how you like it. What do I smell like</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick watched Pete idly lick sauce off his fingertip. “What do I smell like?” he asked out loud, because now he was curious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete laughed and coughed at the same time, covering his mouth with his forearm. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wanna know what I smell like,” Patrick said, blushing but defiant. “So, like, what is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh. I… Give me a sec.” Pete shook his head and cleared his throat, watching the TV intently. He chewed on his lip. “I don’t know. Feel like I’d be able to nail it if I could write it down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick had seen bits of Pete’s writing before. He’d never really read it, but he’d seen it. On old napkins and paper plates and receipts and copy paper and pages torn from magazines and journals and boring books and newspapers. Pete’s writing was jagged and dark and heavy-handed and nearly impossible to read, so any glances Patrick got at it never really made any sense. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you write?” Patrick had asked once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Poetry,” Pete had answered. “Maybe a book someday. Maybe a few books.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t you just say it out loud?” Patrick frowned at Pete in the present, hugging his own knees to his chest. “Writing is just talking in your head and then, like, writing the words down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete shook his head. “Nah, I’m better on paper. I think better than I speak. You’ve gotta think about the cadence and the rhythm of poetry and use different words than you’d use when you’re just talking to someone face-to-face, you know? It’s a totally different way that you have to express yourself. Think of a musician that you’re really into.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick blanked for a second, as if he’d never heard music before in his life, before he randomly plucked a name out of the air. “Um, David Bowie.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good choice. You think he talks to people in real life the same way that he did on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ziggy</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Aladdin</span>
  </em>
  <span>? He probably can’t. No one can. You can’t talk to people in the same way that music can talk to people.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think he could, though,” Patrick said skeptically. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe he could,” Pete admitted, “but I can’t. Bowie’s an unfair comparison. I’m just better with a pen than I am with my mouth. With some exceptions.” He winked at Patrick. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick scowled, not really knowing, yet again, what Pete was talking about. He climbed off the couch, padding across the living room to where his backpack lay slumped over against the wall next to the front door. He knelt down and riffled through it until he recovered his school notebook and a mechanical pencil. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thrust them at Pete. “Write it down.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete just looked at the notebook for a second, his lips parted. “Write down what again, kid?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What I smell like. What you think I smell like.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete took another second before he accepted the materials. He flipped the notebook open to a random blank page, balanced it on his knee, and bent over it. He didn’t say anything as he began to write, his eyes flickering back up to Patrick every now and again. Patrick began to feel heat creep up the back of his neck as Pete held his attention, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He folded his hands behind his back and twisted his fingers together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wordlessly, Pete turned the notebook around and let Patrick look at it. It wasn’t as nearly as unintelligible as Pete’s writing usually was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>dew</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>marshmallow peeps </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>watermelon flavor  </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>grass</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>fabric softener </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>sometimes me and im sorry </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>faith trust and pixie dust</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>that space between sleep and awake</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>cranberry juice</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.” Patrick smiled, feeling that stupid, strange little </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m special” </span>
  </em>
  <span>feeling rise rapidly through him, making him want to hide his face a little bit. “Okay. Cool.” He took the notebook back from Pete, touching the soft, dark marks that were indented forever, leaving a scar on the paper just underneath it. “Why are you sorry? For, uh, for how you make me smell.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete gave a small shrug, looking at the TV rather than at Patrick. “It’s not your smell. I’d rather you smell like you instead of me. I like you more than I like me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?” Patrick asked, genuinely baffled, because he couldn’t imagine someone less interesting than himself and no one more interesting than Pete. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe it’s your face. Little round Raggedy Andy face. Or your voice. Something like that.” Pete finally looked back at him, seeming needlessly sad, his face having fallen. Patrick wanted to pin it back up. “I just think you’re kind of inherently good and I’m kind of not.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><span>The smell of summer and the smell of Pete surrounded Patrick’s body whenever he was staying at Pete’s house overnight. He always slept in what Pete referred to as the ‘study’, a room with a futon, a desk, and not much else besides a crammed bulletin board and pictures of people Patrick didn’t know hanging on the walls. A lot of the photos were of a very pretty girl that looked like she was in high school or college. Pete was in at least half of them, looking younger and happier, his hair cut much differently. Pete’s hair now was pitch black, short and choppy, barely enough to run your fingers through. His hair used to look different at least every week in those photos, Patrick thought. One week he had a red mohawk. The next week he had red bangs that fell just above a pair of square glasses. The week after that, it was black again, but much longer, hanging in his face and framing smudged eyeliner. Pete used to wear makeup a lot. Patrick wondered why he’d stopped. </span> <span>Maybe his dad had told him it wasn’t for boys. </span></p>
<p>
  <span>Different phases of Pete smiled or leered in stagnation at Patrick every time the current Pete sent him to bed over the weekends. They looked at him above the mess of books and paper and cups and plates and pens and pencils and markers and everything else that was crammed onto the desk. The young Petes had crinkly smiles, big teeth, and a light in his eyes that shone brighter than anything else in the picture. Patrick’s Pete didn’t smile so wide. The light was duller, the smiles were smaller. It was like the girl in the pictures had taken them away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who’s she?” Patrick had asked once as Pete was tucking him in, placing a teddy bear at his side. Patrick had told him he thought it felt too stupid, he was almost in double-digits, he didn’t need to sleep with a bear, but Pete had informed him that it was the only thing that made him feel like he was doing a good job at babysitting. Patrick had relented. (And, admittedly, it was cozy to sleep with. It got pretty cold in Pete’s house sometimes.)  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who’s who?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The girl,” Patrick had said, pointing at the photos above the desk. “The girl in all the pictures.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Pete had replied. It’d sounded like he’d already known what Patrick was talking about. He’d given a little shrug, toying with the blanket, unfolding and refolding the edge of it. “That’s Jeanae.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is she your girlfriend?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. She used to be. A long time ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why do you still have pictures of her?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete was quiet for a second, rubbing the teddy bear’s ear, looking at its big, sad, glass eyes as though it was just as empathetic as Patrick, maybe even more so. “I’m trying to let go of her. I’m trying to write her out of my life. I haven’t, uh, managed to do it yet, so they’re still up. It’s like a reminder to finish what I’m working on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you working on?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A book. I think. I think it’s gonna be a book.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick had squinted in confusion. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh-huh. For a while, it was gonna just be poetry, then music, then short stories, and now probably a book. Ideas evolve the more time you spend thinking about them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why do you keep thinking about her if you wanna let go of her?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete had smiled. “Good question, huh?” He’d given Patrick a kiss on the cheek before getting to his feet. “Go to sleep. I don’t want you to think about her at all. Just think about, you know, him,” he’d added, patting the teddy bear on its soft, purple head. “And waffles for breakfast. And coffee.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do I have to have coffee?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not if you don’t want to. It stunts your growth, anyway. Look at me. Started drinking it when I was twelve and I stayed the same height forever.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>that tall when you were twelve?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete had winked at him just as he was opening the bedroom door, flicking the light off. “More or less.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete had shut the door and Patrick had been left looking back at Jeanae and Pete’s mutual smiles, frozen in their happiness forever, the glass looking dusty under the glare of the moonlight cast across them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stared at him tonight, too. As Patrick lay with Travie (Pete had given the teddy a name one night and named him after an old friend, he’d said), holding him close just to have something to hold, Pete and Jeanae looked down at him like they knew something about him. Patrick had always figured that Pete knew something about him, like Pete could look into his head and see his thoughts sometimes like one of the X-Men, so it was natural to assume that Jeanae did, too. From wherever she was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe she was dead. Maybe that was why Pete looked so sad when he talked about her. Patrick’s grandma had died when he was five and he remembered having to wear a really ugly, hot, itchy suit like his dad and wear stupid shoes that hurt his feet and look at his grandma’s dead face, all paper-white and too free of wrinkles, too many teeth, too much hair. He didn’t want to think about Jeanae in a casket without her smile and her dark hair, all dry and colorless. He wanted to think of her as the same pretty girl out there somewhere as a singer or a lawyer or an actress or something. Someone who was happy. And not dead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The more he thought about it, the worse Patrick felt. Pete hadn’t ever said what had happened to her. Maybe it was something awful. Maybe she’d gotten cancer and all her hair had fallen out. Maybe she’d gotten hit by a car. Maybe she’d spontaneously combusted. Patrick had read that that could happen to people sometimes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick didn’t know why he was so worried about her. Maybe it was just the fact that it would be scary to sleep with a dead girl watching him, like she was a ghost that was stuck in his room. Like he was being haunted. Like she was standing in the corner at the end of the boring movie they’d watched earlier, possessed by a witch or whatever it was that had happened to those people. She was the same age as them. Maybe she’d gotten possessed. Maybe that was what had happened. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn’t fall asleep. Cutting off Travie’s metaphysical circulation, Patrick clutched him tight, trying not to look at the photos. It was hard. Really hard. Every few minutes when he rolled back over, he’d seek them out from out of the corner of his eye. Jeanae smiled all the same. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Pete?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sprawled out on the couch, Pete snored quietly, his legs bent and hooked over the arm of the couch. His head was tilted to the side, cheek crushed against the cushion beneath him. His jaw looked especially scratchy, the shadow on it dark and rough. The TV blinked at him rapidly with colorful eyes. It was playing some kind of documentary, the worst and most boring kind of TV, the people in it talking to the camera in between shots of the thing you actually wanted to be watching instead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a very strange fear in waking sleeping adults. Patrick didn’t know what the worst thing that could happen was, but he knew it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Maybe that he’d get in trouble for it. He didn’t know. Whatever it was, it made him approach Pete nervously, his feet light on the floor, arms clutching Travie for moral support. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pete?” he whispered again, reaching out to press two of his fingers lightly against Pete’s shoulder. “Hey, Pete?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete sniffed and grumbled something incoherent, rolling onto his back. He blinked hazily and rubbed the heel of his hand against one eye. “Hey,” he croaked, his voice even deeper and more crammed full of nails than usual. “You okay? You get sick or something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I, uh. No. I’m okay. I-I, um, is—is Jeanae dead?” Patrick blurted out, feeling the weirdest, most awful urge to cry. When he sniffled, trying to hold it back, he felt it come out all at once. He made a horrible choking sound and felt his eyes burn, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I was—I was super, like—I got r-really worried.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, Jesus, kid.” Pete scrambled up and wrapped his arms around Patrick snugly, pulling him in close. Patrick gasped and sobbed into Pete’s shoulder, grabbing at his shirt and holding it tight with the hand that wasn’t gripping Travie. “Holy shit, no, she’s not, she’s okay. She’s fine. I swear she’s fine. She’s a fashion designer in Seattle. She’s got two kids. She’s married. She’s totally fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick sniffled again, hard and fast, making himself coughed. He hacked four times into Pete’s shoulder as Pete stroked a hand across his back. “You sure?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m sure. I check her Facebook sometimes. She’s doing really well. A lot better without me, actually. She’s fine. Sorry, Christ, I didn’t mean to freak you out or anything. We just had the worst breakup ever and it’s been really hard for me to get over. That’s all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.” Patrick took a deep breath and coughed again. “I’m sorry. I was scared.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, you’re okay.” Pete rubbed gentle circles over Patrick’s back and gave his cheek a little nuzzle with his nose. Patrick felt even calmer now, his insides curling pleasantly, like ivy with lavender flowers blooming and twisting in between them. Soft leaves with soft furs. “You’re okay. You know how many times I’ve woken up in the middle of the night and I was so fucking scared I couldn’t breathe?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whenever Pete used really bad words, it made Patrick feel a little excited, like he was more grown up than he really was. “Why?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was born that way, I guess. Or something in me broke when I was trying to grow up. One of the two.” Pete gave him a kiss on the temple, unspeakably tender, making more flowers blossom in Patrick’s stomach. “I would just wake up from a really bad dream and I’d be covered in sweat and wanting to scream as loud and as long as I wanted, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything. I felt like I wanted to dig my nails into my skin and just pull until it tore off.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you—do you feel that way now?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sometimes, but that’s what my medication’s for.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sick?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh-huh.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you, um.” Patrick sniffed hard and took another deep breath. He didn’t cough this time. “Are you gonna get better?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not all the way. Not forever. But the medicine makes things better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...am I gonna get sick?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Pete said firmly. “Not like me. Don’t worry about that, okay? Never worry about that. You’re fucking perfect. Your head’s perfect, your—your everything is perfect. Trust me.” He carefully pulled Patrick away to look at him, placing his hands on either side of Patrick’s head. “I don’t want you to ever think anything bad about yourself. Not ever. I’ll kill you if you do.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick nodded, half-smiling. “‘Kay.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Kay,” Pete repeated solemnly, giving Patrick a nod before breaking into a grin. “Lemme clean you up. Can’t go to bed looking like this.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Perched on the bathroom sink, Patrick felt too far off the ground. He swung his legs idly with Travie hooked into the crook of his arm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Need to cool you down so you can sleep. Here, wipe your nose.” Pete offered Patrick a tissue before running the sink’s cold tap, soaking a washcloth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick did as he was told, his eyes squeezed shut behind his cloudy, lopsided glasses. He dropped the tissue on the sink and pulled his glasses off, scrubbing them with the hem of his shirt. Everything close-up suddenly swam in front of his face and shapes lost form. Pete was a mass of dark, warm movement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He squeaked when he felt the damp washcloth on his skin. He heard Pete’s laugh, low and scratchy but sugary all the same. Like those brown packets of sugar his mom liked to put in coffee: all coarse and hard, but very, very sweet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick pushed his glasses back up his nose. He could see Pete in full detail now, watching Patrick with big, glittery, caramel-y eyes. He pressed the washcloth against the nape of Patrick’s neck. It was just above the collar of his t-shirt and Patrick had the dumbest moment of anxiety where he was worried about his pajamas getting wet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete rested his hand there, seeming to search for something in Patrick’s face. He opened his mouth for a moment, started to say something, and then closed it again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick took a second before he spoke up. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I, uh.” Pete bit his bottom lip, his head inclining just a bit before he finished his sentence. “Could I ask you a question? And maybe you could just, like, not tell your parents that I asked?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick nodded. He didn’t tell his parents much of anything anyway. They never listened. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you ever…” Pete seemed to lose steam halfway through again. He swallowed and tapped his free fingers on the edge of the sink. He exhaled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you ever been kissed?” Pete finally asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick laughed and wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. “Ew, no. That’s gross. I never wanna get kissed.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Never?” Pete smiled a little. “There aren’t any girls who can keep up with you at summer school?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick shook his head, making a face. “There’s not a lot of them in my class. And I don’t know any of them that well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re missing out. It’s a lot of fun.” Pete pulled the washcloth away from Patrick’s neck and draped it over the faucet behind him. He reached up and brushed Patrick’s bangs away from his face. Patrick felt his cheeks flush, his shoulders pulling up a bit to help him feel even smaller. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...what’s it feel like?” Patrick asked, looking down at Travie instead of Pete, poking the bear’s glass eyes, pressing them into the fabric with his thumbs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, kissing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Warm. Wet.” Pete tucked a few strands of hair between Patrick’s ear. His face grew warmer. “It’s like drinking hot chocolate when it’s really cold outside. It fills you up and makes you feel light and happy and like nothing could go wrong ever again. It’s fun and it’s easy and it makes you feel special.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick folded one ankle over the other, pressing Travie’s eyes in deeper. “I guess I’ll learn someday.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete withdrew his hand from Patrick’s hair. There was a pause before he said, “I could show you now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick looked up, now so hot he felt like he was getting a really bad cold. “Huh?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you wanted to.” Pete looked about as nervous as Patrick felt, twitchy and on edge. “Only if you wanted to.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I… um…” Patrick didn’t know what to say. He dug the heel of one foot into the top of the other. “I dunno. I think that’d feel weird.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s fine. That’s okay,” Pete said quickly, stepping away from Patrick. He shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket like he was scared they were going to do something without his permission. “Sorry, I won’t—I’m not gonna do anything. I promise. I love you too much, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick nodded, hugging Travie tight. “Okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry. I really am.” Pete, in turn, hugged Patrick tighter. Patrick closed his eyes and let himself love how familiar this was. “I’m really fucking sorry.” He shuddered and pressed his fingers into Patrick’s shirt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t let me hurt you,” Pete murmured, his voice wavering. Patrick suddenly felt terrified and confused that Pete was going to start crying. “Don’t ever—don’t let me hurt you. Don’t give me a chance to hurt you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick was lost again. “I won’t,” he said, his voice small, because there wasn’t anything else he could think to say. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pete didn’t cry, but he also didn’t let go. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The smell of summer and Pete and the study and the rest of the house sticking to Patrick’s clothes was a reminder that something else had claimed him forever. Something greater than himself. Something bigger than his own house and his parents and school and his birthday and Christmas and Halloween and music and everything else Patrick knew. The things that Pete did and said were all bigger and hard to understand and Patrick wanted to know what all of them meant someday. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew Pete was something more. Patrick’s feelings for him were bigger than anything he could really explain or compartmentalize. He’d had babysitters before, but none of them had ever been quite the same. Nothing like Pete. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick pulled up the front of his shirt and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply as he sat in the backseat of his mother’s car. He was glad that cigarettes smelled the way they did. At least they lasted long enough for the drive home.</span>
</p>
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